


the walls i build are strong and unshakable

by theonewiththeeyebrows (painfullystoic)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abusive Sheriff Stilinski, Hale House, Hale fire, I know, Justification, M/M, Rebuilding, Savior Derek, Victim Blaming, it was so hard to write
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 07:02:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11984637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/painfullystoic/pseuds/theonewiththeeyebrows
Summary: Stiles stumbles upon the ruins in the Preserve by accident his freshman year of High School. He’s running away from the assholes on the Lacrosse team because for some asinine reason where the popular kids had ignored him in Middle School, they decided to bully him in High School. They chase him all the way to the edge of the Preserve with Lacrosse sticks and banana pudding cups.The one where the sheriff is an abusive father after his wife died. And Stiles finds refuge, first in the Hale house, then in the only surviving Hale.





	the walls i build are strong and unshakable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DiscontentedWinter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscontentedWinter/gifts).



> I found a file on my computer from a year or so ago where I'd started writing this. I had recently started writing a different story about the Sheriff being an abusive father, but I found I could tie the old one into the new one. 
> 
> The rating may increase as I write this, IDK.
> 
> Unbeta'd.

He’s read a lot of propaganda about victims and survivors. 

About how victims blame themselves. 

About how abusers want control. 

About how victims learn to make excuses for their abusers. 

That’s not what he’s doing. 

It isn’t. 

Because he knows that the man that hit him, wasn’t his father. And the man that his father hit, wasn’t him. Because he can still see his dad lurking in the light behind the shadows in John’s eyes. He can still feel his warmth in the cold of his palm when it clenches painfully around his shoulders. 

And it’s not the same. It’s not the same because even when his dad’s just tipsy, he’s affectionate. 

It isn’t until he’s almost nearly blacked out that he gets violent. Till he starts seeing demons where there aren’t any. And it isn’t that he’s beating Stiles. He is, but it isn’t _just_ Stiles. Because once Stiles came home after a sleepover at Scott’s house and found his dad’s knuckles bloody, his Sherriff’s Jacket a bloody mess on the floor under the broken coat stand. His dad sees demons, and when there’s nobody else around, Stiles wears that demon’s face when his Dad’s almost black-out drunk. But when his dad gets black-out drunk most nights, it’s hard not to start making excuses. 

It’s hard not to start flinching when someone yells or raises their hand. 

It’s hard not to start wanting to stay away. 

It’s harder because _he_ doesn’t even notice. He doesn’t notice that Stiles is hardly home anymore. That he doesn’t eat much, or sleep much, or that his grades are slipping. 

Stiles can see the knowing looks on people’s faces. Hushed conversations that cease when he walks into rooms, or people averting their gaze as he walks down the street or corridors. The way Scott stutters apologies and backs away slowly saying he can’t hang out after school because he’s starting an internship at the Veterinarian Clinic. He doesn’t push it. He starts stocking up on concealer when Lydia Martin corners him one day and gives him tips, before she squeezes his fingers painfully in some misplaced sense of solidarity and hands him a card of a support meeting in Mount Shasta so that nobody in Beacon Hills finds out. He tells her she doesn’t know what she’s talking about and walks away angrily, but he pocket the card. He never ends up going to the meeting. He can’t risk it. His dad’s the Sheriff. The Sheriff who wakes up every morning sore and bloody with no recollection of beating his son to a pulp. The Sheriff who apart from this one thing is actually a really good guy. The Sheriff who is fighting his demons by fighting his son, and he has no clue. And Stiles is too scared to tell him. And so is everyone else. 

So, in the span of a year. Stiles loses his mother, his father, his best-and-probably-only-friend and any semblance of a life. 

He’s only twelve. 

And nobody says anything. 

* * *

Stiles knows his dad is a good father. He’s kind, warm, tells the best stories and gives the best hugs. But that man died the same day his mom did. He fell into a bottle of whisky and never came out. And Stiles knows, objectively, that his mother’s death wasn’t his fault, but when a drunk man beats the crap out of you every day screaming “how could you take her from me?” or “you killed her!” or some variation thereof, it’s hard not to start believing that he killed his own mother. Even though he was only twelve and barely understood what was going on. When the man beating you is the man who is entrusted to take care of you… well. You can see where this train of thought is going. 

So, Stiles learns to stay away. Stiles’ dad was an army brat who grew up to be a military man and police officer, he has a routine. Stiles knows his routine and knows to stay away. He knows there’s nowhere really for him to go. He can’t go to the shelter because they’d kick him out since the shelters are for the homeless and he isn’t technically homeless – and everyone knows he’s the Sheriff’s kid. He can’t stay at the library since it closes at eight, and that’s just about when his dad’s getting to the point where he goes into his crazy hallucinations of road-side demons and werewolves and druids, about an hour after than is when Stiles is about to have his ass kicked. If Stiles can manage to stay away till about midnight, he’s home clear. His dad is probably passed out, or worn out enough that Stiles can get him out of his blood clothes and into bed. He’ll see glimpses of his dad then, when his dad will pat his cheek and tell him what a great son Stiles is and how proud he is. On those nights Stiles cries himself to sleep, makes some scrambled eggs and leaves before John is even awake. 

* * *

Stiles stumbles upon the ruins in the Preserve by accident his freshman year of High School. He’s running away from the assholes on the Lacrosse team because for some asinine reason where the popular kids had ignored him in Middle School, they decided to bully him in High School. They chase him all the way to the edge of the Preserve with Lacrosse sticks and banana pudding cups. 

The charred house is huge. There are sections of the house that have completely fallen down. But the main foyer is pretty much intact. There are scorch marks that run up the walls in bizarre patterns and Stiles follows them up to the second floor. There’s two rooms that he could stay in if he wanted, if not for the dust, dirt and critters – one is decorated with what looks like flowers and rainbows, there are small toys still scattered on the floor. The other that looks like it would have been the room of a teenage boy. There’s a half-burnt poster of some blonde chick in a red bikini slumped on the floor near the door. The bed is broken, and the mattress torn to shreds. 

The basement is huge, Stiles finds a whole study with a library full of weird books on werewolves and magic, and it is so unreal. The study is the least damaged place. There’s not a single scorch mark, but it also looks like nothing was touched in years. There are weird symbols on the doors, and Stiles runs his fingers over them wondering what they mean. There’s a photograph on the wall behind the desk chair of a happy looking family, big and smiling. It looks planned, but the smiles look genuine. It makes his heart ache. He doesn’t know what happened here, but it probably wasn’t anything good. 

* * *

In a way, it surprises Stiles that he can fit most of his belongings in a backpack, and a cardboard box. He doesn’t have much. He has a few of his mom’s things, things he managed to salvage from his dad’s raging and purging. A year after his mom died, his dad spent three months hunting every little scrap of evidence of her life and burning it in the backyard when he was almost black out drunk. When he’d wake up and find her things missing he thought Stiles threw it out and raged at him. Stiles managed to save a few of her perfume bottles, his favorite arcade photo strip of the three of them, her favorite wig after chemo made her lose her hair, and a couple of her handwritten cookbooks and notebooks and one of her dresses – her wedding dress was thankfully in a storage locker in Florida with his Babcia. Stiles packs it all up. He packs the few comic books he bought with money his Grandmothers send him, takes them to the ruins. 

Three weeks after he finds the house he finds out it belonged to the Hales. Laura and Derek Hale. Nobody knows where they are. They left after their family was burned to death after a mysterious fire. Laura was at college and Derek was at a Basketball game in Missouri. The only other survivor was their Uncle Peter who was in an assisted-living facility 40 miles from Beacon Hills – he was basically in a vegetative coma because of the severity of his third-degree burns. The night Derek was set to return from his game, he came home to find his family burned alive and his uncle comatose in the hospital. His sister came and took him away the next day. Nobody had heard from them since then. Peters bills were paid and the estate was managed by an agency, who had been instructed to keep everything functional and only had functional access – pay bills, pay taxes, pay the agency a pre-determined fee with a pre-determined increment with no prospect of termination. 

* * *

Stiles’ goes home three times a week to check on his dad. He knows things haven’t changed because nothing has changed. His dad hasn’t said anything to make him think he’s realized anything is amiss. Until one day he gets home and his dad’s cruiser is parked is the driveway along with an ugly powder blue jeep. He goes inside, and his dad is fuming. He isn’t drunk, he’s just angry. 

Stiles flinches when his dad sees him and yells. “Where the hell have you been?” 

“Out?” Stiles says, eyes downcast. 

“I have been waiting for you all evening.” Stiles is scared. He knows his dad won’t him when he’s sober, but he’s also never seen his dad this angry. 

“I didn’t know.” Stiles whispers. 

“What do you mean you didn’t know!” The Sheriff yells, “It’s your damn birthday! You should have known!” 

“My bir-birthday?” Stiles stutters. His last three birthdays have been spent under his bed reading _Arkham Asylum: A Serious House on Serious Earth_ or _The Killing Joke_. “But—“ 

“Stiles, you’re seventeen now.” The Sheriff looks at him expectantly. 

“I know.” Stiles averts his eyes. 

“I got you a gift.” The Sheriff reaches into his jacket and Stiles flinches softly, when his hand jerks out suddenly. “Here.” 

Stiles stares at the keys dangling from his dad’s fingers. “What?” 

“It was in storage.” His dad says, unfazed. 

“What?” Stiles says, shocked at what is happening. 

“I had it painted so that it wouldn’t be the same, because I don’t think I could stand looking at the lemon yellow without thinking-- anyways. You’ll be learning to drive now, so I figured you should get the jeep.” 

“You’re giving me mom’s car?” 

“Why do you sound so surprised.” Stiles is surprised. Of course, he is. His dad hasn’t been his dad in so long, it’s hard to accept this new reality. And sure, he hasn’t been beaten in over a year now, but he also hasn’t been living at home for longer. 

Did his dad even realize he wasn’t home on his 16th birthday? 

“I figured last year you spend your birthday with Scott, so this year, when I should at least get the significant ones, right? I should have gotten 16, but let’s let bygones be bygones. Maybe I can get 18 next year, and maybe 21 if you still want me around then? But since you weren’t there last year, we should celebrate together this year.” 

“Sc-Scott?” He stutters over the name. 

“Yeah. Where is he, by the way? I figured the two of you would be together.” Stiles hasn’t been friends with Scott for four years. But John doesn’t know. He doesn’t stay out of the bottle long enough to ask. 

“He had to do some chores. Me-Melissa wanted something done.” Stiles lies. There was a point of time in Stiles’ life when he’d never lie to his father, but lies roll of his tongue so easily now. 

“So, what do you want? Pizza?” John asks, as he reaches for his phone and fingers the bottle of Jack Daniels sitting on the coffee table. 

“Come on, dad. Let’s go to the diner. You can show me the basics of how to drive.” Stiles says, trying to distract John. 

“Eh. I was thinking we could stay in watch the game?” John says, and Stiles’ heart sinks. He doesn’t think he’d be able to take a beating on his birthday. It would completely shatter any love he still holds for his father. 

“I don’t want to watch football.” Stiles says, sharply. He fists his hands into the pockets of his jeans. 

“Really?” John asks, skeptically. 

“Yeah, Mary Anne’s still has the Bulletproof Shake. Can we please go there?” Stiles says, trying to coax his dad out of the house and away from the bottle. 

“Fine. But only because it’s your birthday.” The Sheriff grabs the keys to his cruiser and shrugs on his jacket. 

Stiles sighs in relief. 

* * *

His birthday was the best day Stiles has had in years. When he slinks out of the house after his dad’s gone to sleep it isn’t with bruises or verbal abuse, but a heartfelt hug and an “I love you, son.” that makes Stiles want to cry. 

It’s proof his dad is in there somewhere. But when the bottle of Jack comes out, so does the Monster. But Stiles can’t trust it. 

The first year was the worst. His dad wasn’t drunk every night. So, on nights he was drunk, Stiles would weep in pain, and when he wasn’t drunk Stiles would think he’d gotten his dad back – only to have him break Stiles’ ribs the next night. As the drinking got worse, so did the frequency and intensity of the verbal and physical abuse. And Stiles finally accepted the fact that his dad was gone – that he wasn’t there anymore, just the Monster who inhabits his dad’s body. But ever since that first year, he can’t believe the good days anymore. 

Stiles can’t trust the good days. So, he doesn’t want to stick around for the next time the monster appears. He heads to the Hale house. He’d fixed the roof in the “boy” room and cleaned the room up. He’s glad he has Roscoe now. He won’t have to walk the 5 miles into the woods as he used to, he's had his permit for a year now, so he parks the car in the forest, so that it is far away from the Monster’s destructive hands. He’s sitting by the window of ‘his room’, reading when a hand clamp around his shoulder. He startles loudly, and whirls around to face the intruder. He swallows the fear that lumps up in his throat and lets out an indignant, “Hey!” as he comes face to face with a familiarly unfamiliar face. 

“What are you doing here?” The man asks, scowling. 

“What are _you_ doing here?” Stiles counters stubbornly, twisting out of the stranger’s grip as he tries to remember why he seems so familiar. 

“This is private property.” His eyebrows knit together, and Stiles is taken back six years to the night before his life turned to shit. 

“You’re Derek Hale.” Stiles murmurs softly, too softly for Derek to hear. Derek’s frown deepens. 

“You still haven’t answered my question.” Derek says. 

“This place was abandoned.” Stiles hedges. “It’s not anymore.” Derek raises his eyebrows. 

“You can’t live here.” Stiles scoffs. 

“Neither can you.” Derek crosses his arms across his chest. Stiles’ eyes bug out at the way Derek’s biceps bulge under the sleeves of his Henley. 

“I don’t live here.” He says, weakly. 

“Go home, kid. Don’t go running around the woods in the middle of the night. The wolves might eat you.” Derek smiles, all teeth, and if Stiles’ heart wasn’t already working overdrive it would have been in that moment. He scrambled to pick up his backpack, but his bruised ribs protest when he bends to hoist the weight up, and he yelps in pain. 

“You okay?” Derek’s got an arm around his waist, and helping him and his backpack up. 

“I’m fine. Ran into the door.” Stiles laughs, awkwardly. “My clumsiness is county famous. Look at that Stiles. What’s he run into this time? Which set of stairs has he fallen down? Has he got his hand caught in his jeep door this week? Now you know. Thanks for the help with the bag.” He watches Derek’s eyebrows furrow and his mouth turn downward, and he laughs awkwardly not knowing what else to do. 

“You don’t have to go.” Derek says, “If you don’t want to. I mean. I was just going to check this place out, see if there’s anything worth salvaging in terms of structure before I rebuild the place.” 

“You’re rebuilding the house?” Stiles asks, heart sinking to the ground. 

“Well, I’m building a gazebo here. I’m thinking of building a house about a mile away.” Derek says, eyeing Stiles suspiciously. 

“Oh.” Stiles whispers, looking at the ground around his shoes. 

“I was thinking of turning this area into like a memorial of sorts.” Derek continues slowly. 

“How much of the Woods is Hale property?” Stiles asks, raising his eyes to meet Derek’s brilliant eyes. 

Derek bites his bottom lip as though he’s thinking. “Umm. All of it used to be, but now it’s about half?” 

“Whaaaa---?” Stiles eyes bug out of his head. 

“Who did you think it belonged to?” Derek asks defensively, arms crossed. 

“The County?” Stiles says sarcastically, as though it was obvious. 

“The County owns the Preserve, but only about half of the wood is “The Preserve”, and the only reason the County has the Preserve is because they cried about how all this untouched natural land should be government property and my mom sold half her land to them at a supremely overpriced rate because they were whiney little bitches.” Derek says, shaking his head. 

“Holy Moley.” Stiles is surprised, but then he remembers what Derek said earlier. “So, I can stay? At least until you decide to tear it down?” 

”I thought you said you didn’t live here.” Derek asks, evenly. 

”Um, I don’t, but this has been my safe space for over a year now. So, can I? Stiles says, omitting the fact that he does in fact live here when he can. 

Derek tilts his head and levels Stiles with a look, “I’m starting to regret allowing you to.” 

“I’m sorry.” Stiles apologizes, wringing his hands nervously. 

“Stop apologizing” Derek says, exasperated. 

“Sorry. Fuck. Sorry.” Stiles grimaces. 

“Look, I don’t know what your deal is, kid. I know I initially told you to go, but you can stay as long as you want. And you can come back whenever you want. In about three weeks, the ruins will come down, but a week after that work on the main house will start. You’re welcome to come there too.” Derek offers, kindly, even though there’s something about the way he says it that makes Stiles’ heart hurt. But the relief is palpable. He knows he’ll have to start staying at home longer. But perhaps he can still get away occasionally. 

”I can help with the building.” Stiles says. “As repayment maybe? For letting me crash here.” 

”You don’t have to that.” Derek says, sliding his hands into his pocket awkwardly. “But I will appreciate it.” 

”Thanks, dude.” 

”Don’t call me ‘Dude’. My name is Derek.” Derek scowls at Stiles. But in the short while that Stiles has known him, he knows Derek is all Bark and no Bite.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, could you please leave me a comment to let me know.
> 
> If you don't like it, don't bother expressing that - I wrote this for me, not you. Concrit is ok.


End file.
